


A Demon in Black

by nosferatu_insideofyou



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Drinking, Cryptids, Eventual Smut, F/M, Folklore, Gothic Romance, Horror, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Vampire Copia, painfully slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2020-11-22 12:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosferatu_insideofyou/pseuds/nosferatu_insideofyou
Summary: The year is 1876. When a sudden tragedy uproots Edith from her former life, she's forced into the company of strangers in a country that is not her own. She's soon confronted with strange tales of spirits and beasts that haunt the wild, untamed land around her, and no less strange is the handsome, reclusive man whom she finds herself in the service of: D. Copia.Explicit rating in anticipation of future chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy.
> 
> x

Yorkshire, England - 1876

— 

It was raining. It always rained at Hell House.

It wasn’t the gray, hazy drizzle that was to be expected this time of year. No, this was the sort of torrential downpour that veiled the entire estate in a dark shroud, save for the lightning that lit up the sky like daylight now and then. It was magnificent and terrifying; the kind of night that made “Hell House” feel like more than a clever moniker.

That wasn’t really its name, of course. But Hill Manor had earned a certain reputation amongst the townsfolk. Many were reluctant to pass through its black, wrought-iron gates. I hadn’t known that, of course, when I accepted my position here. Perhaps if I had, I would have hesitated.

Perhaps.

I should’ve recognized something was amiss sooner than I had. It was strange, the way lights from passing carriages on the road seemed to speed up as they passed the front gate. Stranger still were the peculiar stares I earned from the local inhabitants whenever I had reason to go to the small village nearby. It was the postmaster at the depot, a dilapidated little building near the edge of town, who informed me of my new home’s reputation. But when I pressed him for details, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said the locals believed it haunted.

I was hardly surprised: I was a stranger to this land, but I knew the north country to be wild and untamed and it’s people to be highly superstitious—even in these modern times. I wasn’t particularly superstitious myself, nor was I one for flights of fancy and tall tales. (My father had seen to that.) However, I can’t exactly say I blamed the village’s distrust of the manor—superstition had little to do with the disquieting atmosphere that lingered throughout the entire estate. The black gothic spires and towers reaching up towards the sky cut an imposing figure against the gray backdrop of the countryside; no less imposing was the massive red door, which was flanked on either side by massive Italianate columns and imbued any who crossed its threshold with the sense that they were passing the very gates of Hades itself. The entire facade gave the impression of a small cathedral rather than a palatial countryside estate.

Inside, the walls were old, and they ached and groaned like the damned with every strong gust of wind. On nights such as these, the entire house seemed to breathe. In fact, the structure itself seemed more full of life than its inhabitants.

I still had yet to meet the master of the house. The only indication that I had of his existence was a name on my record of employment: D. Copia, written in the elegant script of a well-bred aristocrat. Nearly every other aspect of my employment here was conducted through the stern, silver-haired valet, Mr. Clifton (whom I’d mistaken for his lordship himself upon my initial arrival, due to his aged and stately countenance). My weekly salary was delivered by him, and any instructions for my daily duties were doled out at his or Mrs. MacKenzie’s discretion. When I inquired about the whereabouts of our employer, the valet very curtly informed me that Lord Copia was conducting business on the continent and that it was unlikely I’d see him in the flesh for some time. And that was all the more he spoke of him.

Most nights, the staff would meet for a game of cards and a bottle of brandy until the former turned competitive or the latter lulled us to sleep. But the storm had left most of us in a solitary mood for the evening, and I took advantage of the opportunity to write correspondence to my friends back home in Boston. But just as I’d sat down with my parchment and quill, a rather emphatic gust of wind extinguished the candle by which I’d intended to write.

“Damn,” I cursed into the sudden darkness. I sat up from my desk and fumbled in the blackness for the book of matches Jamie, my brother, had given me when a sudden crack of lightning webbed across the sky, lighting up the moor my bedroom window overlooked.

I froze, certain my eyes were playing tricks on me. With the flash of white light, I could’ve sworn a dark figure loomed on the edge of the moor. I waited, if for no other reason than to verify my momentary insanity. No one would dare linger outside in such weather. But then, another bolt of lightning ripped through the night, and I knew then that my sanity was, at the very least, not in question. The figure had moved, much further away than I would’ve expected, further into the moor. Was it Jamie? Had one of the horses got loose? I waited again for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when lightning illuminated the landscape once again, the figure was gone.

_ Perhaps it was an animal _, I rationalized. No human I’d ever met could move that swiftly. Grabbing the matchbox off the desk, I lit my candle once more to resume my writing and, hopefully, put the thought of some quick-moving predator wandering the moors out of my mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely friend Rubrikate for helping me make this story so much better. (Go read their Temporis series immediately.) I can't wait to show you all where this is going.
> 
> x

“Edith, child, when you’ve finished with the silver, would you kindly check upstairs and ensure all of the windows are covered?” Between her furious dusting and sweeping, the head housekeeper Mrs. MacKenzie shouted her various instructions to me. The manor was more lively than I’d ever seen it in the two months that I lived there, and for good reason: we’d received word of Lord Copia’s arrival in six days' time—in a letter that was dated six days prior.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, giving the ornate platter in my hand a final wipe with a cloth. 

Prior to my employment, I’d learned of his lordship’s preference for a dark house. At the time, I’d assumed this referred to his taste in decor: the rich woods and dark upholstery of the furniture and deep reds and blues on the walls certainly aligned with my assumption. But I now knew that this was to be taken quite literally. The main house had many windows, and they were all decorated with fine, velvet drapes that reached dramatically from ceiling to floor and blocked out the light of day. This struck me as peculiar; though the house was aged and in need of some repair, it was still an undoubtedly handsome home—yet, so little of it could be seen. In fact, considering the frequent cloud cover that blanketed northern England, I found the constant darkness rather oppressive. I was relieved that in the servants’ quarters on the lowest floor, at least, we were permitted to keep the curtains however we wished.

I ascended the grand staircase to the second story and worked quickly from room to room, ensuring the clasps on the heavy curtains were done so that each one of the finely-decorated rooms was more or less engulfed in darkness. As I stepped out of the final chamber on the second floor, a thought suddenly struck me: I had never actually been to the third story.

I was aware that the third floor was Lord Copia’s private living space, and with the master of the house away, and most activity in the main house occurring on the floors below, there was never any need to venture much further until now. “The third floor is off limits unless you are expressly instructed to go up there,” Mrs. MacKenzie had said upon me and my brother’s arrival. I assumed this was one of those occasions. And to say that I wasn’t at least a tad curious about what I might find up there would’ve been untrue.

As I reached the final landing, I found myself in a very dark and very narrow hallway. At least, it seemed quite narrow only because the ceilings were so tall. As my eyes adjusted to the blackness, I could see many paintings lining the walls—so many, in fact, that it was a wonder the actual wall could be seen behind them. I saw the faces of many stately aristocrats and roving English landscapes. As I walked further down the hall, I noticed the paintings were significantly older: some were easily 200 years old, the lacquer yellowed with age. Most of the paintings were masterfully done, and my artist’s eye drank in the sight of each one.

As I passed door after door, I noticed one space on the wall that was conspicuously bare, and next to it, a door to one of the rooms had been left slightly ajar. I saw no telltale light from the room that would indicate an exposed window, but nevertheless, my curiosity lured me inside to have a look around. Though the light was faint, I could see it was a handsomely-decorated bedchamber. The collection of dust that coated all of the furniture indicated that this room hadn’t been used in some time. Still, I found it rather curious that no one would care to give it a once over with a feather duster, at the very least. As I held my candle up to the walls, I saw that the room was _also_ adorned with several works of art, but one painting in particular (which sat on the floor) captured my attention: an exquisite example of the baroque style leaned up against the wall before me—or at least, it must’ve been exquisite at some point. The focal point of the piece was a beautiful, round-featured woman dressed in a white gown and dark blue riding habit with a dark bergère hat perched atop her pale coiff. She was standing in a garden, which I recognized immediately as the pleasure gardens outside the house—as made evident by the back facade of the manor in the background. However, the gardens as I knew them seemed rather dull and lifeless compared to the lush greenery of the painting. (“Nothing ever grows at Hill Manor,” my cousin Elizabeth, the kitchen maid, had said to me.) But in this frozen moment in time, roses and Queen Anne’s Lace bloomed and grew amongst the lush hedges. But the woman was, by far, the most beautiful thing on the canvas. Though merely a painting, she assumed the poise and grace of a lady of some means. Next to her, a beautiful white steed stood guard at his mistress’s side. But perhaps most startling were the blue eyes that peered out at me.

Rather tragically, the painting had been badly damaged. A great gash tore across the painting, cutting off both woman and horse at the knees. It might’ve been fixable...if the paint itself had not also suffered severe water damage, as though it had been left in the rain. It certainly explained why it no longer hung on display. With some reluctance, I headed back into the hall to resume my task, closing the door behind me.

As I delved further into the inky blackness, I realized I could see a sliver of daylight shining at the bottom of one of the doors. I was a tad confused: who could’ve been up here? I conceded that a curtain must’ve been left open before my arrival as I was certain no one had any need to come to the third floor. I wiggled the handle—locked. I fished the skeleton key out of the pocket I’d stitched into my skirt and attempted to unlock it. But when I tried the lock, it was to no avail. _ That’s strange_, I thought. The skeleton key was intended to work on every door in the main house.

I tried the key in the lock once more, hoping it was simply a sticky mechanism when a sudden sound from the other side caught my attention: footsteps.

I froze.

“Hello?” I called out. The footsteps stopped, and I could see the light in the space between the door and the floorboards become partially obscured. “Is someone there?” There was no response.

My heart thumped in my chest. With great care, I placed my ear against the door. It was quiet, but from the other side, I could hear the distinct sound of heavy breathing and perhaps..._ sniffing_? Someone was certainly there, and whoever it was, they had no intention of making themselves known to me.

The sudden sound of the dinner bell made my heart leap into my throat—a small little chime, beckoning the staff down to the kitchen. With that, I stepped away from the door and hastened back down the stairs, putting the thought of the footsteps out of my mind for the time being. 

* * *

I sat next to Jamie and ate my soup in silence, listening to the other house staff socialize and chatter about their days. It’s not that I disliked any of them, though I sometimes perceived that the feeling may not be mutual—at least, not where my aunt was concerned. But the group was rather small and tight-knit, and I often felt that I had little to contribute. My aunt Mary, the house cook, and my uncle Geoffry, who served as the stablemaster, had worked for Lord Copia for a number of years, along with my cousins Elizabeth and Charles. From what I could gather, the rest of the staff had also worked with one another at the estate for some time.

“That was a rather nasty storm last night, wasn’t it?” Elizabeth remarked over her meal.

“Aye,” my uncle replied with a nod. “Made a mess of the pastures. It’s a fortunate thing I had young Jamie here. He certainly had his work cut out for him.” With his words, a sudden image from the previous night appeared in my mind: a dark figure lingering near the hedge, moving faster than any human.

“Did the horses get loose last night then?” The sound of my voice must’ve been rare indeed as half the table startled at the sound. Jamie turned and looked at me curiously, the space between his copper brows knitting.

“No,” Jamie shook his head, “and it’s quite fortunate they didn’t, at that. I’m not sure I’d have gotten them back in.” He scrutinized me between spoonfuls of hot soup. “Why do you ask?”

I suddenly felt several pairs of eyes peering back at me from around the table and flushed at the sudden attention. “I thought...I thought I might have seen something outside last night. An animal, maybe, on the moor.”

“‘An animal,’ you say?” My uncle Geoffry spoke as he scratched the blond whiskers on his chin, contemplating. “No beast, domestic or otherwise, would be foolish enough to wander the moors in that weather. You sure that’s what you saw?”

“It’s hard to say. I couldn’t get a good look at it before it ran off.”

“Maybe it was a hobgoblin?” Elizabeth piped up. “Or a spirit? You never know what kind of creatures wander the moors when neither human nor animal may not.”

“I don’t think so.” I was doubtful, but I offered Elizabeth a kind smile anyways. As a scientist, my father was a firm believer in the natural world. ‘_If something can't be proven true, then it is false until proven otherwise_,’ he’d say to my brother and me. It was a lesson I took to heart, though it was not one most of my God-fearing peers understood.

Elizabeth grimaced. “Oh cousin, you Americans are always so skeptical,” she said. “If you were from around here, you’d believe. Even most southerners have a healthy respect for the supernatural.”

“Americans can be very superstitious, as well. But my-” I cut myself off, fearing it was inappropriate to bring up the subject of my parents. The fact that my speaking of them made people uncomfortable was not lost me. Perhaps they thought it was because I would cry. But then, they didn’t know me very well. “I just don’t believe in such things until I’ve seen them firsthand."

Elizabeth leaned in close and smirked, her pretty green eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Well, perhaps you just did.”

“That’s enough, Elizabeth,” my aunt Mary chided from the other side of the table. The older woman gave my cousin a pointed look over her spectacles, communicating something silently, and the girl bowed her head and resumed eating her soup. It was a look I’d come to know well in the last year since the beginning of the dissolution of my former life, one that said: “don’t upset her.”

I found it tremendously vexing.

At half-past nine, a bell chimed throughout the house, signaling the arrival of our long-absent employer. There was a flurry of movement, and the house staff quickly filed out the giant, red front door, forming a line outside. Though the sun had long set, the full moon shone bright, and the white steed who pulled the black carriage up the drive was illuminated like a bright specter in the night. At first, I thought it was strange that such a carriage should only be pulled by a single horse, but as they approached, I saw a great black beast pulling the carriage alongside the white one. I suddenly felt a flutter of nerves in my belly, like moths waking up from a long winter slumber. I knew little about D. Copia, but from what I gathered after living in his home for two months, he was rather enigmatic and certainly a little eccentric. I wasn’t exactly sure what I expected, but having grown up in a house that constantly played host to a menagerie of colorful characters my parents had befriended—from natural philosophers to musicians to spiritualists—I was certain his particular brand of insanity was nothing I couldn’t handle.

As the carriage pulled to a stop, I was so taken with the beauty of the horses and its ornate, obsidian exterior that I nearly missed the driver. As he stepped down, I was startled not only by the sheer size of the man (for large he was) but also by the ghoulish silver mask he wore. The whole thing covered the vast majority of his head from crown to chin, which came to a sharp point towards his chest. The area where the mouth should’ve been was completely solid and smoothed over, the only openings being the nostrils on a strong, sharp nose and two oval-shaped holes where eyes glittered from behind them. Most shocking of all were the two horns protruded out from the forehead like the Devil of the Christian tradition. Indeed, I was not superstitious, but such a mask was certainly intended to provoke discomfort, which it did with great success. Equally as strange (but much less intimidating) was the high-collared tunic the driver wore. It seemed closer to religious garb than driving clothes, but then, Lord Copia _was_ an eccentric.

The driver walked around to the carriage then and opened the door. I waited with bated breath as the master of Hill Manor stepped out and adjusted his coat.

Upon first impression, I was a little surprised: D. Copia was not nearly as tall as I had imagined. In fact, he appeared to be only a few inches taller than myself. However, he was an indisputably elegant man, outfitted head to toe in solid black—right down to his leather gloves, which were each emblazoned with a gold St. Peter’s cross. As he walked closer to us and into the light of our candles, I saw a face that was far more handsome than I’d expected, though deep, tired lines had set in around his eyes. His salt and pepper hair was neat and tidy as a pin with his mustache and side whiskers cut much closer to the skin than what was fashionable. Black makeup ringed the areas around his eyes, which some of the more devout would consider a sin against God for a man to wear. I found myself impressed by his commitment to the profane and provocative; this was clearly a man who did not fear the Church. But, perhaps most striking of all were his heterochromatic eyes, one green and the other with an iris that was even whiter than the sclera surrounding it—the only mark of color being the black pupil. Suddenly, I became very aware of the fact that I was staring and shifted my gaze to the horses as Jamie and Uncle Geoffry walked over to tend to them.

“My lord, welcome home,” Mr. Clifton said in his low baritone. “I trust the trip was a success?” As he spoke, another ghoul, nearly identical to the driver, came from around the other side of the carriage with a very large steamer trunk. Such a trunk would surely require two ordinary men to carry, but the weight seemed of little consequence to him.

“Yes,” Copia replied, in a voice that was far gentler than I’d expected. He turned to the masked man holding the trunk. “Please, take that to my chambers.” The ghoul nodded and proceeded into the house, the other one following close behind.

“Shall I have one of the kitchen staff bring you supper, my lord?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Copia turned to the rest of the staff and nodded. As the newest addition to the house, I presumed an introduction was in order, but Copia’s unnerving gaze barely passed over me before he turned back to Mr. Clifton. “On second thought, tea. I’ll take it in the study.”

“Very good, sir.” And with that, Mr. Clifton bowed slightly as our employer entered the house without so much as a parting glance.

Later, as I performed my nightly ablutions at the washbasin in my bedchamber, my mind swam with the day’s events. I still wasn’t sure what to make of the footsteps on the third floor, and I didn’t care to linger on the thought. However, my rational brain told me it was more than likely one of the other house staff who’d snuck upstairs for some unknown purpose and didn’t respond out of fear of repercussions. (In fact, potential repercussions for being beyond the area where I normally worked was precisely why I had yet to mention it to Mrs. MacKenzie.) Then again, if it _was _some unknown intruder, my failure to mention anything earlier could mean that he or she was still in the house—and that thought terrified me most of all. As I unpinned my hair from its plaits atop my head, letting it fall long down my back, a soft tap came at my door. Curious, I pulled my powder blue sleeping jacket on—one that my mother had embroidered with yellow chrysanthemums—over my gown, grabbed the candlestick from the dry sink, and opened the door.

“Good evening, cousin,” Elizabeth said, holding a light tea service tray out to me. “The master of the house requested you bring his evening refreshment to the study.”

“Me?” I wrapped my jacket around my waist. “But I’ve already undressed. Surely, he won’t mind if you-”

“He asked for you, specifically.” I thought I detected a twinge of annoyance at the request in Elizabeth’s voice. “You had best get a move on before it gets cold.”

I took the tray from Elizabeth’s hands, and she whirled around and quickly walked to her room down the hall. I found myself suddenly alone, standing in my doorway with a full tray, wearing nothing but my bedclothes. It seemed an absurd request, and I was certainly not about to redress myself just to bring Copia his tea—but I didn’t dare disobey a direct order. With a sigh, I balanced the tray on my hip and closed my door, making my way to the second floor in bare feet.

The study was a magnificent room: the walls were lined with row after row of thick, dusty tomes both contemporary and ancient. There was even an upper walkway where the bookshelves reached all the way up to the ceiling. During that first couple of months, I frequented the study nearly every evening, pouring over the vast selection of fiction. And I quickly learned of Lord Copia’s keen interest in the occult, based on his selection of works on the subject. It was just another piece of a most puzzling man.

When I arrived with the tea service, the man in question was sitting on the chaise lounge in front of the roaring fireplace, absorbed in a novel as he smoked an exotic-smelling cigarette. His fine profile was backlit by the fire with his legs neatly crossed in front of him, and he did not look up as I entered the room. I hesitated to say anything as it felt as if I might be disturbing him.

“Here,” he said simply, motioning to the end table next to him without looking up. I placed the tray down and poured the tea into the delicate cup. “Your name is Edith.” It was less of a question than a statement of fact.

“Yes, my lord.” I set the teapot back down and took a step back, wrapping my sleeping jacket tight around me.  
  
“And you’ve come all the way from Boston?”

“Yes, my lord. By way of Oxford.”

He licked the tip of his finger, which was long and slender, and turned the page of his book without an upward glance. I privately questioned how much of a conversation one could realistically hold while reading. “And how do you like it here, Edith from Boston?”

“I like it very well. The countryside is beautiful,” I said before hastily adding another “my lord.”

“Hmph.” Copia reached for his cup, eyes still transfixed on the page, and took a sip of his tea. “Very well. That’ll be all. Thank you.”

_ Was that it? _ Peculiar as it was for him to call me from my room to bring him tea (particularly for a job that better suited the kitchen maid), I was grateful he didn’t wish me to stay and make idle small talk well into the night. I offered a small curtsy and turned to leave, but suddenly I remembered the thought that had gone through my head before Elizabeth knocked on my door that evening. “Sir, if I may...bring your attention to a certain matter.” He remained silent, and if I had his attention, he made no show of it. “Earlier today, as I was cleaning, I thought I heard...something. In the locked room upstairs.” He did not respond, but I thought perhaps I detected a slight shift in his posture. I suddenly felt a bit silly for bringing this to him and wondered if I should’ve just kept my discovery to myself—or informed Mrs. MacKenzie instead. “I apologize if I’m being intrusive, but I thought I would mention it.”

For the first time, he looked directly at me, white eye glowing in the orange light as he returned my gaze. Those long-dormant moths began banging around in my belly again and I felt my face flush, but whether it was out of shyness or fear I could not say. Looking Copia in the eye was like facing a morbid curiosity: I wanted to look anywhere else, but I also couldn’t pull my eyes away. “I’ll attend to it. Good evening, Edith.” And with that, he returned to his book.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a forewarning: There's some era-appropriate physical punishment in this chapter that might be triggering for some people, so just be aware.
> 
> Also, I apologize it's taken me so long to complete this update. The past several months have been very...chaotic. Hopefully, the length of the chapter makes up for my lack of updates, but I should be posting far more frequently now.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for all of your kudos and comments. It means the world to me.
> 
> x

_ “Hold still, little bird,” my mother cooed from behind her easel. “You’re moving the skirts.” _

_ I did as she bade me. I was happy to help my mother with her commissions whenever she asked—whether that be cleaning her brushes or standing in for her subject. My assistance today, however, was intended to serve as recompense for my abandoned Sunday school lesson, and staring out the parlor window for the past hour did little to ease my restlessness. The New England sun shone brightly through the soft, sheer curtains of the bay window, and I could see my brother run across the garden with his hoop. I was much too old for such childish games, but a longing still tugged at my heart at the thought of fresh air and sunshine; the shady spot beneath the maple tree in the garden taunting me cruelly. The only consolation for my position was the sensation of the silken fabric of the fine, white dress I wore, and I sneaked the occasional glance at the tall mirror across the room every now and then and relished in the feeling of appearing so mature—despite the hidden clips along the back to make the dress fit my frame. _

_ My mother was not blind to my stolen glances. She set the brush down and looked at me from behind the canvas thoughtfully. _

_ "You’ve grown so much that dress nearly fits you as well as I,” she noted. I looked over at the mirror, admiring the sweeping neckline that exposed my clavicle. I straightened my back and stretched my neck in an impression of my mother. She’d always looked so queenly and handsome in her fine gowns. _

_ "It is beautiful. Why do you never wear it, Mama?” _

_ She was thoughtful for a moment, staring at the soft fabric. “I never seem to have an occasion to,” she said simply. I turned back to her, curious. My parents were expert entertainers, and they never lacked for fancy soirees or parties where one might wear a beautiful dress. She sensed my confusion and continued: “I’ve always considered it something better suited to a dimly lit room with a handsome stranger.” She considered it for another moment. “It is a better dress to be removed than donned.” _

_ I gasped, astonished at my mother’s suggestion. She laughed at my mortification; she was never one to bite her tongue and feign modesty. It was why my father was (and remained) enraptured by her, but it did her few favors in the prudish society of her mother country. Though, if I was honest, her frankness and disregard of societal expectations were traits I hoped to inherit. _

_ "Perhaps, it is time for me to find it a better home,” she sighed, standing up from her chair in front of the easel. “Come now, let’s get you changed. I believe you’ve learned your lesson for today.” _

* * *

I awoke with a start to a cold, dark room. The days of summer had drawn to a close and so, too, had the mornings of early light. I sat up, wiping the sleep from my eyes; remembering with stark realization that my mother was gone and never coming back. I had long since shirked the hourly grief at the thought of my situation, but in those quiet moments of vulnerability, the weight of my loss hit me like a punch to the gut that expelled all the air from my lungs. My parents were dead, my friends were an ocean away from me, and my former life was but a shadow that was slowly dissipating like mist on the moors with each passing day. Thank the Heavens I, at least, had Jamie.

Once I had regained my carefully crafted composure, I pulled myself from the warmth of my bed to don my work uniform: a simple black dress with a white apron. I sighed as I pulled my garments from the wardrobe, running a hand over the lovely white gown that hung in the back—my mother’s gown—altered to fit the current fashions: off the shoulders and low at the waist with a full, layered skirt. It had been a year since my father’s passing and six months since my mother’s, and as was customary, I’d donned black mourning garb; I’d never had a chance to wear the gown that my mother and I had sat bent over with a needle and thread for so many hours until it fit me just right. I wondered if I ever would now, for when would a lowly housemaid have need of wearing such a thing? Now, it resided in the back of my wardrobe, a reminder of a life that was no longer mine. I closed the door, refusing to feel sorry for myself. It was just a damned dress.

I supposed a benefit to no longer wearing such finery was that I’d become quite adept at dressing myself without a second set of hands to help fasten the laces of my stay and ensure my skirts fell neatly over my crinolette—or have need for a crinolette at all. As a final step in my dressing routine, I donned the garnet gemstone on a thin chain around my neck—my birthstone and a subtle reminder of my former life. I was ready for the day in ten minutes flat and made my way to the kitchens before most of the house had awakened.

Of course, Aunt Mary and Cousin Elizabeth were already hard at work when I entered. A single day had passed since the master’s return, and in that time I learned he was a late riser, staying awake late into the night in his study—which meant he rarely took breakfast at a typical time. Despite this, the kitchen staff—consisting of my cousin and aunt—were always early to rise to prepare breakfast for the rest of us. “Good morning, Auntie. Cousin,” I said with a nod as I reached for a bannock on the kitchen table.

My cousin startled, looked at me, and then back at her mother as my aunt’s posture suddenly stiffened. Aunt Mary dropped a utensil into the bowl of eggs at which she’d been whisking away with a clatter and whirled around with a face like stone. “You’re awake,” she said. Her tone was icy enough to chill me to the bone. “Good. I can save us both the indecency of doing this in front of the others.” I dropped my bannock back in the basket and looked at my aunt, dumbfounded.

“I...what are you talking about, Auntie?”

“Don’t play coy with me, girl. Can you think of nothing you’ve done?” Mary placed a hand on her hip, a fire blazing behind her eyes. I tried to wrack my brain for a response, but my mind was suddenly filled with a haze. My mouth opened and shut stupidly as my aunt awaited a response.

“I don’t...believe so,” I finally offered.

“I see,” my aunt huffed, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps you’d care to explain what you were doing on the third floor the other evening.”

My heart sank. How could she have known? Unless...Lord Copia must have said something. Of course; I was so stupid. I should’ve gone to Mrs. MacKenzie immediately when I thought something was amiss on the third floor—like any good servant would have done. It had been so easy to forget myself. “But I-”

“Did your parents teach you nothing of respect for rules?” my aunt interrupted. “Have you any idea how hard I worked to bring you and your brother here? The amount of begging and convincing I had to do?”

“I’m...I’m sorry.” A lump suddenly rose up in my throat, but I fought it back. Aunt Mary turned to Elizabeth, still frozen at her work station, watching this unfold.

“Give me that.” She gestured to the wooden spoon lying next to the sink. Ever the obedient daughter, Elizabeth handed the spoon to her mother, and I caught her throw an apologetic but fleeting glimpse in my direction. “Hold out your hand,” my aunt ordered, walking over to me; wooden spoon in her grip. Instinctively, I hid my hands behind my back. Did she truly mean to rap my knuckles like a poorly-behaved school child? She may’ve been my kin and my elder, but I was twenty-and-one years old—far from a child. My anxiety had dissipated and was summarily replaced with anger.

“Auntie, I...no,” replied defiantly, keeping my hands behind my skirts. 

“‘No’?” The older woman faltered, the ice in her voice abating some along with the hardness in her expression. “This is not up for debate. You are my niece, and you are my responsibility. Believe me when I say I take no pleasure in this, but you must learn.” She stared at me pointedly, steel-colored eyes peering over her spectacles.

And she was right, of course. I knew both my aunt and my uncle had to make substantial pleas to convince Mr. Clifton—and I imagine, Lord Copia himself—to allow my brother and me to work here. (And I was certain other concessions had to be made, as well.) I bit my lower lip and rationalized that it couldn’t hurt _that_ badly; perhaps, it was better to get it over with. Reluctantly, I removed my hands from behind my back, holding the left one out before my aunt, and closed my eyes.

I heard the whoosh of the wooden spoon before I felt the harsh pain of the handle bite across my fingers, and I wanted to scream. I had not had my knuckles rapped since I was a child with a barbarous piano teacher—and my piano lessons effectively concluded once my father saw the red marks across the tops of my hands. The handle came down once more over my knuckles, landing on the same spot as before. I reflexed instinctively, and a humiliating tear slipped from my eye as the handle came down a third and fourth time.

“What the Devil is going on here?” Mrs. MacKenzie’s voice called out from somewhere behind me. I opened my eyes and saw Aunt Mary looking aghast.

“I am punishing this girl for her nosiness,” she replied, wooden spoon poised for another pass at my sorry flesh. I could hear footsteps closing in behind me.

“You have no right to do that!” Mrs. MacKenzie’s hands were suddenly at my shoulders, turning me around to face her. I could hear the dumbfoundedness in my aunt’s tone as I looked down at the much shorter woman who was examining the reddened skin on my hand. It would almost certainly leave a bruise.

“All due respect, Mrs. MacKenzie, but she is my niece, and I will punish her as I see fit,” I heard my aunt say. Mrs. MacKenzie grimaced, tearing her gaze away from my hand to examine my face. There was a warmth and compassion there that I had not seen in months. She looked over my shoulder and scowled at the other woman.

“Well, _ all due respect, Mrs. Corrigan,_” she snapped, voice dripping with derision, “but she does not _ work _ for you. She works for _ me_, and I gave her the instruction to go upstairs. If she were the kitchen maid, you’d be well within your rights to punish her. But she is _ my _ housemaid, and you will not lay a finger on her as long as she is in my employ.” I could almost hear my aunt’s mouth open and shut in astonishment as Mrs. MacKenzie turned her attention back to me. “Are you alright, child?” I nodded wordlessly. “Come, I’m sure you have something else to do.” As we left the kitchen, I dared a glance back at my aunt, red-faced and gripping the spoon like a vice as my cousin did her best to shrink silently into the corner.

* * *

After stealing me away from the kitchens, Mrs. MacKenzie wrapped my knuckles in cloth and wiped my face clean, tutting the whole time about what an “absurd woman” my aunt was and her “unbecoming behavior.” 

“To punish you as if you were a child with your hand in the sweets; absolutely ridiculous,” she muttered, wiping my face with a wet cloth at the washbasin in my quarters. “I don’t care what she had to do to bring you and your brother here. It’s ghastly behavior.” She was a kind woman, though it was clear that she was not one to suffer indecency. And I appreciated her immensely. Once I was cleaned up and Mrs. MacKenzie had brought me a bite to eat, she tasked me with taking a stack of letters into town—no doubt sensing my desire to be away from the house for a while—and I was all too eager to do so.

The noonday sun was muted behind a haze of misty cloud cover, but it offered enough warmth and light compared to the dank interior of Hill Manor to warm my skin—and I soaked it in. It was early October, and the mild chill in the fresh air as it whipped across the moor prickled at the skin of my cheeks. I knew it would take me approximately four and one-half hours to complete my journey on foot, which left just a small sliver of time to find a perch in the grass to sketch in my notebook. I walked a few meters away from the road until I found myself beneath the naked boughs of an ash tree and settled in to sketch the view of the rolling hills and hedgerows before me.

As I contemplated my scenery, my mind wandered back to the events of the morning. Although Mrs. MacKenzie assured me that I had done nothing wrong, I was still mortified that the master of the house appeared perturbed by my presence on the third floor. And his apparent lack of concern over a potential intruder made me wonder what—or who—could be hiding in a locked room on the third floor. Not only that, but his absurd request for me to bring him his evening refreshment in the middle of the night—something that wasn’t even my responsibility—only to hardly acknowledge me, left me rather perturbed myself. I’d known him less than two days, and evidence of his odd behavior was already mounting. His eccentric reputation preceded him, but it was only then that I fully realized what that meant for me as his employee.

With reluctance, I closed my notebook and resumed my journey to the nearby village. The postmaster there was always kind to me—perhaps a little _ too _ kind, my brother had noted once—and he always offered me a cup of tea or nip of whisky if it meant I’d stay a moment longer and socialize with him. (Today, it was the latter, which I graciously accepted in an effort to pacify the stress of the morning.) But, I must’ve lingered at the depot longer than I’d intended because the sun was already low on the horizon as I set out on my return journey.

As I walked along the path toward Hill Manor, a light fog began to creep its way across the many acres of farmland that encompassed the estate. I quickened my pace, suddenly concerned that I wouldn’t make it back before the sunlight disappeared completely. With each passing minute, the fog on the moor inched its way to the road, and soon I found that it was difficult to see more than 20 or 30 yards in front of me. My limited vision only worsened as the sun sank lower and lower on the horizon.

As the trees and hedges that lined the road began to clear, I realized I was surrounded on all sides by the moor that Hill Manor overlooked, and I thought, perhaps, I saw the faint outline of the estate on top of the hill in the distance.

I knew I had a choice: I could either take my chances and cut across the moor to get to the house or continue walking along the path, which would undoubtedly take me right to the front gates but would also take significantly longer. Worse still, the encroaching fog was thickening by the minute, and I knew this would prove problematic if I were to lose my way while trudging across the moor. I did not relish the thought of wandering blind through the wild, rough terrain for hours on end. But my tender, bruised knuckles were a harsh reminder of the punishment that might await me should I not return in time for the evening meal. I mashed my lips together nervously and decided I’d rather not risk any further admonishment today by showing up late to dinner. With determination, I stepped onto the moor and headed in the direction of the main house.

The moor was still and unearthly quiet. I wandered deeper into the shroud of dense mist. It seemed to muffle all the sounds of nature, the only noise being that of my boots gliding through the wet grass. When the sun shone bright, the moors held a certain beauty: the lush, rolling, green hills peppered with shrubs and wildflowers of every natural color stretched out until they met the edge of the horizon. But as the sun disappeared, so, too, did the inviting nature of the land. As the sun sank, the landscape before me seemed to become hostile, cold: unwelcoming. I shivered and wrapped my cloak tight around me and pushed on into the thickest of the mist. 

The moss and flora underfoot was soft and uneven, and as I ventured further onto the moor, I realized it was much harder to find my footing on the soggy, wet peet. A cold, delicate rain, like spittle from the skies began to fall, and I soon noticed that the fog had now completely obscured the house on the hill. Though, I was certain I was headed in the right direction, if only based on the location of the last bit of light in the sky. My journey seemed to be taking longer than I’d expected, and I was beginning to fret that I’d made the wrong decision when, suddenly, I realized I was not alone.

Through the fog, I could just barely make out the shape of a large, dark figure standing before me. Curious; who could possibly be out wandering the moors in such weather?

“Hello?” I called out to the figure as I stepped closer. “Uncle Geoffry, is that you?”

It bade me no response.

I suddenly stopped in my tracks. The figure was large—nearly as large as a man, but not quite. But it wasn’t its size that made me halt. As I grew closer, I realized that I could hear the sound of heavy breathing unlike any sound I’d ever heard from a human. It was more bestial, and yet, there was something almost...intelligent about it.

“Who’s there?” I called out again, trying hard to not let my voice shake as I did. And in response, a low, unearthly growl emitted from the specter before me. “God in Heaven,” I uttered beneath my breath, taking a step backward. “What are you?” And as I stepped back, the figure took a step towards me. I froze, causing the figure to do the same—as if it were playing some kind of game with me. But after a moment, the figure seemed to raise itself up, and it let forth a sound like the hounds of Hell.

Without another moment’s thought, I broke to the right into a sprint, praying to God that I was running in the direction of the stable. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, stumbling over uneven earth as I did.

At first, I seemed I had lost the beast in the fog, but that hope was soon lost as I realized I could hear the sound of heavy footsteps drawing closer from behind me. I continued my run, too terrified to do anything else—even if my efforts were futile—but I was thwarted by a rut in the soil that caused me to fall forward onto my hands and knees. Behind me, I heard a horrible snarling and prepared myself with the horrible knowledge that I was about to die alone in the fog on the moor.

But the snarling was quickly cut off by a yelp—like that of a wounded animal. I waited for impact, but none came. After a moment of silence, I permitted myself to turn around. Standing not four yards away from me was a man clad head to toe in black, his back turned to me as he whistled into the fog. I then saw two black beasts, much smaller than my would-be attacker—though still much larger than the average dog—emerge from the fog and trot to their master’s side.

I knew it was him before he even turned to look at me: if his tidy, slicked-back hair and dark dress hadn’t given him away, his elegant posture certainly would have. Lord Copia turned around, his white eye cutting through the fog like a white-hot beam of light as it landed on my terrified form. He strode over to where I sat trembling, the two dogs sticking close behind him. He was silent, and I felt as though I should say something, but my mouth opened and closed mutely as the fear coursing through my veins forbade me to speak. Then, much to my surprise, he crouched down next to me until we were nearly at eye level, never breaking his unnerving gaze away from my face.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes roaming over my undoubtedly disheveled face.

“I…” I began, my voice cracking. One of the black dogs sat obediently on its haunches next to Copia, ears standing up and alert; intelligent, blue eyes gazing at me with the same intensity as its master’s, while the other paced back and forth behind him as it looked out into the mist. It was then that I noticed the animals were not, in fact, dogs at all. Their canine features were too sharp, eyes too narrow, and their bodies were far too large.

“Wolves?” was all I managed to say, looking back at Copia; my voice small and unfamiliar. He appeared surprised at my mentioning his pets, and he shifted his gaze to the beast at his side, running a gloved hand over the spot between the creature’s ears; its eyes closed at the tender contact.

“Perhaps, the only of their kind in existence in England today,” Copia said. He returned his gaze to me then, mismatched eyes retaining their intensity. “Are you going to be alright?” he asked again.

“I, um…I think so.” The thumping in my chest had subsided somewhat, and my voice seemed to have returned from its momentary retreat. I looked down at my muddied skirt, suddenly aware of my frazzled state. “I...seem to be having a very bad day.”

“As I can see.” I thought I detected a hint of mirth in his voice. He rose once again and held a gloved hand out to me. “Come, then. The moor is a dangerous place to be on such a night.” I looked around, realizing the sun was now completely obscured beyond the horizon. I took his outstretched hand, marveling privately at the softness of the leather glove as he helped me to my feet.

“As I’m now aware,” I said, brushing the blades of grass off my skirts. I looked back towards the patch of fog where the unknown beast had been but saw only Lord Copia’s wolf standing watch. Though it seemed to feel threatened by the presence of the wolves, I was eager to be away from this place should the beast become bold once more. “What...was that? That thing?”

“That depends,” he replied, holding his elbow out to me in a gentlemanly gesture. I took it graciously, and we began to walk. “What did you see?”

“I’m not entirely sure. The fog, it’s too dense.” We began walking in the same direction I’d been running, and I could suddenly see the faint outline of a stable up ahead in the distance. Well, at least my sense of direction was inherent.

“So you were unable to see it clearly?” He almost sounded relieved, and for the first time, I noticed his unusual accent. It was clear that he’d lived in England for some time, but beneath his words, I detected that English was not his mother tongue.

“No, I couldn’t get a good look.”

“Hmm,” Copia hummed, “perhaps that is fortunate.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Many strange and dangerous creatures are said to wander the moors at night.” Copia looked thoughtful—as if his eyes were seeing something far off beyond the horizon. “Tell me, Edith, how familiar are you with the local folklore?”

“Not very, I’m afraid.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be.” He paused for a moment, the only sound being that of our footsteps and the snuffling from the wolves as they cataloged the various scent traces left on the moss and shrubs by the moor’s wildlife. Copia took a heavy breath before continuing. “There is a story of a terrible beast that wanders these moors—a black dog larger than any dog should be.” My eyes shifted to the wolves as they ran ahead of us, and Copia must have followed my gaze because he said, “No, not a wolf. It has many names, but in this shire, it is known as the barghest. They say that those unfortunate enough to have encountered it will meet certain death.” 

“And you believe that’s what I saw?”

“If that is, indeed, what you saw, I don’t believe we’d be having this conversation right now.” I continued looking straight ahead, attempting to reserve judgment. But doubt must have been evident on my face. “You don’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but…a demonic dog who wanders the moors? Surely a man of the world such as yourself wouldn’t believe in such things.”

He looked down as a small, sad smile crept across his face, and I worried that I may have offended him. But then he turned to me, the same forlorn expression affixed, and said simply: “You must feel very out of place here, Edith.” We continued walking in silence, the sound of dogs panting at his side. It was now almost completely dark, and I could see the lights of Hill Manor burning through the fog up ahead. A thought suddenly hit me, and I felt the words tumble out before I had a chance to think about it.

“Sir, I wanted to apologize for the intrusion the other day,” I said quickly. Copia appeared to be listening but did not immediately respond, so I continued: “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s quite alright. Mrs. MacKenzie explained everything to me. She’s a good woman.”

“She is,” I agreed. We fell into silence then, though I wouldn’t have considered it a comfortable one. The anxiety of my encounter with the creature was still fresh in my mind, and I longed for the safety and privacy of my own quarters so that I might process the day’s events.

As we finally reached the front door of the main house, Copia turned to his two hounds, commanding them to stand guard outside the threshold. He opened the red door, leading me inside to the large foyer. I released his elbow, and he turned to me with that same look of intensity.

“I presume you’ll be alright from here?” he asked, his gentle voice laced with sincere concern.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, a small but genuine smile making its way across my face, and the expression was mirrored on Copia’s. He leaned forward ever so slightly in a small bow.

“Good evening then, Edith.”

“Good evening, my lord,” I replied, offering a small curtsy in kind. “And sir,” I quickly added, “thank you.”

He nodded wordlessly in response and turned away then, making his way towards the grand staircase. However, before he ascended, he turned back towards me, though not so much that his eyes met my own. “Don’t go wandering the moors again on your own.” And with that, he retreated up the steps.

* * *

Later that night, when I returned to my quarters after dinner, I found a small, black notebook laying on my pillow: _ my _notebook. I suddenly realized I must have dropped it during my mad dash across the moor, and in my shaken state, I hadn’t realized it was no longer on my person. And yet, there it was, laying on my pillow. I rationalized that it was far too dark by the time I’d have dropped it for one of the other staff to have stumbled upon it on the moor, but if Copia had retrieved it when he encountered me, I never saw him do so. I picked it up and placed it on my desk, forcing any thought of some terrible hell hound wandering the moors out of my mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see some inspiration for this story, follow my writing blog: nosferatu-insideofyou.tumblr.com
> 
> I'm also on Twitter, if you ever want to come yell about vampires and Ghost with me: @papaemeritus_iv


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely feedback. This took me a lot longer to write than I'd intended, but what else is new (lmao). I hope it is worth the wait.
> 
> Also, someone mentioned they'd be interested in seeing the playlist I've been using as inspiration for this fic. You can give that a listen here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3SWQoskiQu39sVoflz5NRg?si=TkHZNf2dRBu-aoXxhZ-iQw
> 
> x

I awoke to a sound that I’d become quite accustomed to since my arrival in Yorkshire: the gentle tapping of rain on my window pane. I laid in my bed, savoring the last few moments of the dream I’d awoken from. I had dreamt of my parents again, though the details were quickly dissipating from my mind. I tried my best to recall them; to remember the bell-like laughter of my mother; the smell of my father’s pipe tobacco that still lingered, but it was a futile effort—like trying to trap smoke between my hands. I stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast by the droplets of rain sliding down my window, and counted backward from ten before forcing the covers off my body and swinging my feet onto the cold, stone floor.

The day carried on like any other—though my aunt paid me little mind as I took my breakfast with the rest of the staff in the kitchen. My cousin, however, chatted happily at me about the dress she was planning to sew once she’d saved enough to purchase fabric from the textile maker in town. I was mostly silent as I ate my porridge (a dish I’d learned to tolerate since coming to Yorkshire) and offered the occasional one or two-word response. A year ago, I would’ve gladly enthused with Elizabeth about fashion plates and lady’s magazines, and I was sorry that I could not offer her the female companionship that she so clearly, _ desperately _desired of me. (I surmised that she must not have had many friends her age—if any at all.) Still, I was always grateful for Elizabeth’s willingness to carry on a one-sided conversation. She offered an oasis of normalcy that my life so sorely lacked; the closest thing I had to a friend here.

After breakfast, Mrs. MacKenzie assigned me to the second floor for the day while she saw to the main floor. Despite the size of the manor, caring for it was not what one might consider challenging—particularly when its inhabitants amounted to a single recluse and his small staff. In fact, the only consistent evidence of our master’s existence during the daylight hours was the empty tea service leftover in the study from the evening prior and a collection of snuffed-out cigarettes in the crystal ashtray next to the chaise lounge. Warm embers still glowed in the fireplace as I emptied the ashtray into the rubbish bin and set the crystal back onto the end table. I set the bin down and retrieved a small log to place over the burning coals. I could hear the wind as it whipped through the chimney, huffing out bits of ash and soot as it did so.

I moved from room to room, shaking the dust from the curtains, wiping down surfaces, and sweeping the aged floors—a pattern I repeated day after day. And by the early afternoon, most of my work was complete. I decided it was a good opportunity to visit my brother and bring him a bit of lunch. He so often lost himself in his work in the stables that he’d frequently forget his midday meal. I stopped by the kitchens and wrapped up two sandwiches and an apple for each of us and made my way outside.

It was cooler that day, and I wrapped my cloak tight about me as the wind whipped across the moors, shaking the naked branches of the trees in the garden and fluttering my skirts as I walked. I found Jamie in the round pen, lunging one of the horses—a great, black, shining specimen—in a circle. I reached the gate as Jamie turned toward me and held up the basket containing our meal.

“A little bird tapped my shoulder and told me you likely had not eaten,” I called out to him. He smirked and brought the horse to a halt, reeling it in towards him and patting its glistening flank. Jamie whipped his head one way then the other and replied in a hushed voice.

“There is a list of things I could call our dear aunt, but a ‘little bird’ is not among them.” I snorted a laugh—a trait I was often told is unattractive in a lady—but my bruised knuckles twinged at the harsh reminder of Aunt Mary’s temperament.

Jamie led the stallion into the stables, securing him in the crossties to groom him before releasing the horse into his own paddock. I set out our meal on a blanket beneath the shelter of the pavilion that housed bales of hay and inhaled the scent of wet grass. It gave us a brilliant view of the horses grazing in the pasture set in front of a backdrop of misty, rolling hills. A low fog had settled into the deepest parts of the valley, and I could not help but scan the mist for a dark, prowling shape. I had not spoken to anyone of my encounter with the beast on the moor, nor of my encounter with Lord Copia—not even Jamie. I did not intend to enter the moors alone again, but neither did I wish to have my unchaperoned walks into town revoked. And yet, the stillness of the mist—the unabating, unmoving shroud in which wild creatures lied in wait—transfixed me so, and I gained the sense that I might float up and towards the valley when the sound of Jamie’s voice pulled me back to my body.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jamie asked as he sat down across from me.

“Can a girl not wish to spend time with her little brother?” I asked, pulling myself away from the view before us. “Little” was a bit of a misnomer, of course. He was two years my junior, yet he towered over me like a giant.

“I suppose I make for better company than most of our immediate options,” he said with a wink.

“Be nice,” I chided, but I smiled back at him. While I appreciated the company of Elizabeth and Mrs. MacKenzie, it was true that we rather lacked in stimulating conversation. I felt particularly sorry for my brother who, at the age of 19, was the only male near to his age in the house. Our Uncle Geoffrey was a gruff—though not unkind—man who preferred the company of animals to people, and our cousin Charles was only nine years of age and still very much a child. Jamie was charming and sociable, and I knew the isolation was even harder on him than it was on me.

“How are things in the house?” Jamie asked between mouthfuls of food. “Any more trouble?” I instinctively touched the fingers of my right hand to the thin, purplish bruising on my left and shook my head.

“No,” I replied, “I don’t believe Mary is willing to risk the wrath of Mrs. MacKenzie again.”

“I expect not,” Jamie laughed. “Still, it’s probably for the best that you stay out of trouble for the time being.”

“You’re blaming me?” I bristled at my brother’s words, and he must’ve immediately noticed his mistake as he sighed and bowed his head.

“I’m sorry, Edy. That’s not what I meant,” he explained and offered me an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry. As soon as we’ve saved enough money, we’ll get out of here. To London.”

“Ah yes, your London scheme,” I scoffed. I’d heard this plan of his too many times to count in the past two months, and I liked it less and less the more he recounted it. “Where you can resume your studies, and I can become some wealthy businessman’s bride.”

“Well,” he replied, looking out towards the moors, “if we save enough, maybe we can secure passage back home. Back to Boston.” My eyes lit up.

“Do you mean it?” I asked. “I know you’ve had your mind set on London.”

“That’s only because I want us to be gone from here,” he explained. “Having no inheritance has rather thrown a wrench into things for you and me. We have our father to thank for that.” Jamie made little effort to hide the ice in his tone. And while I could not bring myself to have ill feelings toward our late father, I understood his anger. If the shame of learning our inheritance was owed to our father’s debtors was not enough to feel incensed, the miserable predicament it foisted us into certainly was.

“But I also know you wanted to study there before...everything.” I leaned forward and put my hand over Jamie’s where it propped him up on the blanket, giving it a quick squeeze. “If that is truly what you wish, then I will follow you. But…I know you would have many options in Boston, too.” I smiled at him before adding: “We both would.”

“It would mean we’d remain here longer,” he cautioned. “The journey home is not an inexpensive one.” I nodded, withdrawing my hand and sitting back up.

“I know that, but I am willing to do what it takes to return home,” I replied. “I can’t think of a single place I’d rather be.” _ And it is far preferable to me than being married off in London like some broodmare, _ I thought privately. Jamie smiled at me in silent agreement, and my heart suddenly felt lighter than it had in over a year.

“Either way,” Jamie continued. “I’d like us to be away from Hill Manor as quickly as possible.” Jamie looked back at the main house looming across the garden from us with disdain. “This place has a most odious atmosphere. And I’m not sure what to make of our employer.”

“Lord Copia?” I was surprised at this as I hadn’t known Jamie to have interacted with him. “He’s alright.” Jamie looked back at me, his copper brows rising.

“You’ve spoken with him?”

“Yes, he seemed nice enough to me,” I shrugged. “A little eccentric maybe, but nothing you nor I have not seen before.”

“Hmm…” Jamie knit his brows as he looked down at the blanket. He grabbed an errant piece of hay that had fluttered its way onto the fabric and split it between his fingers. I knew this silent fidgeting to be a telltale indication that he was withholding information. I squinted at him.

“What?” I questioned.

“Nothing, I just…” Jamie continued fixating on his assault of the piece of hay as he chose his next words. “I’ve heard things in town. Nobody seems to know anything about him or where he came from. He has no people. It’s as if he just _ appeared _here one day.”

“There’s more to it than that though, isn’t there?” I pressed. Jamie mashed his lips anxiously, a nervous tick we shared.

“There are rumors,” he began slowly, “about how Lord Copia came to own this place. They say the previous lord and lady here died under suspicious circumstances…and then Copia moved in.” Seemingly satisfied with the destruction, he tossed the now-several smaller pieces of hay aside. I grimaced.

“Even if that’s true, that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with it,” I countered. “That’s pure conjecture.”

“Of course, I just…” Jamie turned to me then, a most-serious expression on his face. “Just be careful around him, Edy. He’s…strange.” I rolled my eyes in response.

“Duly noted, brother.”

* * *

Sleep did not come easily that night, much to my displeasure. If concern over my conversation with my brother had not kept my mind alight, the violent noise of thunder and bright white flashes of lightning certainly would have inhibited a sound slumber. It reminded me very much of the stories my brother and I would whisper to each other in the dark as children, one of us having sneaked into the other’s room under cover of night. As I laid in my bed, I watched the rivers of water pool and slide down the windowpane and the bushes below the windowsill shake and tremor in the wind, and I willed myself to shut my eyes and allow sleep to overtake me. I imagined shapes behind my eyes of mountains and remote villages that I used to read about in history books, and soon, those shapes began to take color and form. I was walking through the snow that capped a great mountain range and could see the ocean in the distance. 

_ “Edith…” _

I turned to look behind me, the fur that ringed the hood of my heavy coat obscuring my view, but I sensed someone was there.

_ “Edith,” _ the voice called again, and with great effort, I forced my feet to turn round to find the source of the voice. The snow beneath my boots began to loosen, and I found it difficult to maintain my footing.

_ “Be brave, little bird,” _ the voice whispered.

Suddenly, a loud rumbling like that of a steam engine began to shake the area around me. My knees buckled as my entire equilibrium was thrown off. I looked up and saw a white wall of snow rushing toward me from the summit of the mountain. I struggled to stay on my feet, turning back toward the ocean when I realized too late that I was on the precipice of a great cliff. The drop must’ve been hundreds of feet down, but the approaching avalanche left me little choice. I jumped.

_ “Edith…” _

I startled awake. I was still in my bed, facing the darkened window, and the echo of my mother’s voice still rang in my ears as if she had been in this very room. My limbs were heavy from sleep, and I struggled to move them—as if I were trapped beneath hundreds of feet of snow. As I struggled under the weight of my own body, lightning ripped across the sky, and only then did I realize a most disturbing fact: someone was staring at me from the other side of the glass.

My heartbeat quickened, and I pleaded with my limbs to cooperate as my eyes stood transfixed on the darkened shape in the window. Surely it was only a shrub that I simply hadn’t noticed before now or a shadow cast by one of the looming ash trees. After much protest, my arms complied, and I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. But as I removed my hands from my face, the figure—whatever it had been—had vanished.

A bolt of white-hot panic burst through my chest, and I froze in place. I flipped through every rational excuse for why a stranger might be peeking through my window, but I could find none that brought me any comfort. I squeezed my eyes shut, allowing my senses to explore my surroundings for the sound of footsteps or a shift in the air like when one enters the room. When none came, I counted backward from 10 and threw my eyes open once again. The room remained empty, save for my spartan decor, and the view onto the moor from my window remained unobfuscated by any unwelcome visitor.

I knew my nerves were far too rattled to will myself back into a peaceful slumber, so with much trepidation, I slipped from the safety of my bed to make my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. 

The halls were illuminated only by the light of the candle I held out before me as I padded toward the kitchen in slippered feet. The dim light cast long shadows across the many works of art that adorned the walls, throwing the dour faces of their subjects into stark relief. I felt as though the many eyes in the paintings regarded me silently as the ancient floorboards ached beneath my feet. On any other night, this may have been disquieting—particularly as the aging manor groaned against the wind and rain. But on this night, I was grateful for the quiet company. Even if they could not protect me from some would-be marauder, I felt as though their watchful eyes kept a lookout in the shadowy areas I could not see.

As I drew nearer to the main foyer and returned the gaze of each lord and lady I passed, I was so enraptured that I barely noticed the distinct sound of footsteps tapping down the grand staircase. I stopped dead in my tracks, still far enough back that I could not yet see whoever descended the stairs—nor could they see me. I panicked, looking about me for a place to hide, and I suddenly remembered the nearby location of a hidden staircase once used by lower servants. I could hear the footsteps drawing nearer, and I quickly ran my hand along the wall until I found a small latch, silently opening the secret panel and stowing myself out of sight. From within, a small seam between the panel and its frame allowed me to peer out into the foyer, waiting to catch a glimpse of the figure as they came into view.

He was tall—very tall—broad-shouldered, and stiff postured, mirroring the clean lines of his uniform that was much like a priest’s. He held out a lantern, which contained a glowing, orange flame that reflected off the silver mask he wore upon his face. Other than the night of the master’s arrival, I had not seen further evidence of his existence—nor his companion. But now, the ghoul walked with purpose across the parquet floor of the grand foyer before suddenly coming to a halt. I held my breath, wondering if he had heard me as I slipped into the hidden staircase. A rational, conscious part of me knew I likely had nothing to fear; he was just another one of Lord Copia’s employees, after all. But another part of me—the unconscious part—felt as though I was witnessing something not meant for my eyes. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and gooseflesh appeared upon my arms—as if a sudden cold breeze had found its way to my hiding place.

And then his face slowly began to turn in my direction, and I could feel my heart in my throat as his head tilted slightly to the left in an unearthly gesture. Though I was sure I was well hidden, it felt as though his eyes—which were sheathed in dark shadow behind his devilish mask—were looking directly at me. Beneath my hammering pulse, I could hear a small, snuffling sound emanating from the man. It was almost as if he were sniffing the air for the scent of his prey.

_ Sniffing. _

The realization rocked through me as I suddenly remembered the sounds I had heard on the third floor just a week before. I gripped the candlestick in my left hand and clamped the right one over my mouth to muffle my audible gasp. However, if he had heard me, he was unconcerned as he turned back around and proceeded to exit through the front door and into the rain.

I waited behind the panel as my heart’s racing began to slow, all the while remaining cognizant of any more footsteps. When none but the thumping of my pulse could be heard—and I was certain the coast was clear—I pushed the panel open and stepped back into the vacant hallway.

I stood in silence for a moment as my nerves settled, staring at the door through which the masked man had just exited. Could he have been my unwelcome visitor? That seemed unlikely as his clothing appeared dry. But the...sniffing, like a prowling mongrel; I’d heard that sound once before on the other side of a door on the third floor. He _had _to be the one behind that door, and the thought did little to ease my anxiety.

“What are you doing out here?”

The sudden sound of Lord Copia’s voice from behind me took me by surprise, and the candlestick in my hand fell from my loose grip, clattering to the floor with a loud, metallic bang and snuffing out the flame.

“My lord! Please, do not mind me,” I said hurriedly, bending to pick up the candle and holder. But before I could reach them, Copia was already at the ground retrieving them for me. “The storm awoke me, and I was just heading to the kitchens to make myself some tea.”

“Tea, eh?” There was a terse tone undercutting his usually-gentle voice, and he looked around distractedly as he handed the torch back to me as if he were searching for something. “Don’t bother. Come with me,” he said, his eyes returning to my face.

Copia brushed past me, making his way toward the staircase from which his ghoulish manservant had just come, and Jamie’s words echoed in my head like a church bell: _ “Be careful around him, Edy. He’s…strange.” _ I hesitated, wondering if I had a choice in the matter, but frankly, I was grateful at the thought of some company—and any excuse to not return to my quarters. I hastened after the master of the house, who was already making his way up the stairs with urgency.

* * *

The study was a warm, safe refuge, the flames in the hearth casting an orange glow upon the seating area. The rest was immersed in blackness, save for the solitary candle glowing on the table next to the chaise longue. One of Copia’s wolves laid on the rug in front of the fire with his large, black head resting on his front paws. He watched his master intently as he poured camomile tea into two teacups, handing one of them to me where I sat on a winged armchair. It felt strange, being waited on by Copia instead of the other way around—though not unappreciated.

“Milk?” he offered, nodding toward the small carafe on the tray. I shook my head.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and I took a sip of the tea, allowing its warmth to spread throughout my chest and settle in my stomach. He sat down across from me on the chaise and produced a slim, silver case from inside his jacket pocket, pulling out one of his fragrant cigarettes and lighting it between his lips. It sent a plume of blue smoke swirling and dancing high above his head like a smoke signal in the dark. He eyed me as a gray haze filled the warm air between us, the only sound being that of the occasional roll of thunder and the soft tapping of rain on the windows behind him. He must’ve mistaken my eyeing his cigarette as a craving because he held out the case toward me in silent invitation. I shook my head, and he chuckled. It seemed whatever irritability he’d inhabited earlier had dissipated, and I wondered privately what had put him in such a foul mood before.

“There’s no need to maintain puritanical pretenses for my sake, Edith,” he said. “It’s just you and me here.”

I smiled at that and cast my gaze toward the fire. Truth be told, his frankness was a bit disarming—though I was certain I appreciated it more than most would. “It’s not that, sir. A childhood illness has left me somewhat asthmatic, I’m afraid.”

“My apologies,” Copia said, his brows rising in alarm. “Would you prefer I…?” He indicated toward the crystal ashtray on the table.

“No! No, it’s fine. It’s only ever impeded me during extreme exertion…” I flashed a glance at him with a small accompanying smirk. “...or the time my friend Katherine and I happened upon her father’s pipe tobacco.”

He chuckled appreciatively at the thought and pulled a drag off his cigarette. “Then I suppose it’s especially fortunate I found you on the moor when I did,” he replied.

“Yes,” I said with a nod, recalling the image of Copia appearing in the gray mist; my erstwhile savior. I preferred not to fixate on the pursuer that forced me into such a situation, but even when I did, I struggled to remember the details—as if the image were something beyond my comprehension. I cleared my throat, pushing the thought away. “Though, truth be told, the country air seems to have served my constitution well.”

“That is, indeed, a blessing,” he noted, and he took another pull from his cigarette. “You know, it seems you have a keen talent for appearing in the most unexpected places,” he mused as smoke curled from between his lips.

“And _you _have a keen talent for finding me when I am in a grave state, my lord,” I replied, watching him over the rim of my cup. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he tapped his ash into the crystal. A moment of silence passed between us, save for the occasional popping of the fire, as I allowed the tea to warm my belly. However, unlike during our walk across the moor, it was not an altogether uncomfortable silence. I basked in the simplicity of enjoying another’s company without the pressure to entertain or serve. But I soon grew concerned that he might mistake my silence for rudeness—or worse, dullness. I cleared my throat.

“May I…ask you something, sir?” I inquired. Copia shifted his gaze away from the fire, seemingly unperturbed by the suddenly-broken silence. He appeared to consider me a moment before speaking.

“Please do,” he said, taking another drag off his cigarette. “I would enjoy the conversation. I do not often have someone to engage me so.” I was relieved at his receptiveness, and I suddenly wondered how long it had been since he’d last involved himself in such an intimate conversation—as well as what those circumstances were. I took a breath.

“I was wondering, what leads you to keep such…unconventional hours?” He did not answer right away, and I looked back down at the cup of tea between my hands as I mashed my lips together. “It just seems like conversation might be more readily available during daylight.”

Copia was silent, and I raised my gaze to see him staring deeply into the fire, his eyes glazed over as if his thoughts were in some distant moment in time and space. A small grimace appeared on his face, and I worried my question had upset him before he finally opened his mouth to speak. “Truth be told, I…” He hesitated, seeming to search his mind for the right words. “I find I lack interest in the types of conversations that take place during the day.” Copia turned his eyes to me pointedly, as if he were scrutinizing my face for something. I do not know if it was his unsettling, mismatched eyes or something else entirely, but he gave me the sense that he could look right through me into my very soul. It should have made me self conscious, and yet, any anxiety I might’ve felt was outweighed by the very human desire to be understood; to feel seen by another. And I reveled in it. “Haven’t you noticed the way words flow more freely once the sun sets? I find my head suddenly filled with woes that are far too harsh for the sunlight.”

I nodded. “I believe I understand, sir.” And it was the truth.

“I suppose you would,” he remarked. I raised my brow; I was uncertain how much Lord Copia knew of my past. There was no hiding my Americanness from him, and that fact, in and of itself, surely indicated some tragic backstory that resulted in my isolation here. “It is hard to lose those we love. It is harder still to be a stranger in a strange land.” I took a sip from my cup, hiding the hard swallow in my throat.

“It is,” I replied.

“May I ask you a question in return?”

“It’s only fair.”

“What is the true nature of your being awake and hiding in my stairwell at such an hour?”

I paused, my hand holding the teacup poised in mid-air. _ Had my face given me away? _ It wasn’t a total lie; in fact, it was close enough to the truth that I was certain no further explanation would be required. I set the teacup down in the saucer on my lap. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Your face is an open book,” he smirked again, voice lowering, “and I am very well-read. You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.” I opened my mouth to respond, then shut it again immediately as a chill ran up my spine and the image of a dark figure peeking in through my window flashed in my mind. I swallowed hard again and licked my lips.

“I think,” I glanced at the wolf who’d stretched out onto his side and yawned lazily, “perhaps I have.” Copia quirked an eyebrow.

“I must say I’m shocked, Edith. I thought you didn’t buy into such superstitious nonsense.”

“Ghosts aren’t superstition, my lord,” I said, matter of fact. “They’re naught but souls who have not yet gone to God.”

Copia leaned forward where he sat as if something I’d said had suddenly intrigued him. “As are many other creatures,” he pointed out. “Why should ghosts be real and the others not?” I looked back down again and hesitated before responding. 

“Because I’ve seen one before.”

I remained fixated on the cup in my lap, though I could feel Copia’s eyes burning into me. I was certain he would press me for details—had the situation been reversed, I know I certainly would have. But his remark about my face being easily read must have indeed been true for he did not ask me to explain further. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, and I could hear the sound of him lifting his teacup off the saucer. When I chanced a look at him, the same intense gaze was still affixed to his face, though it was softened somewhat with another emotion. _ Empathy, perhaps? _

“Well,” he said finally, “If it _ was _ a spirit, you have nothing to worry about so long as you’re here. You’ve seen how my loyal beasts deal with intruders.” Copia nodded his head towards the slumbering wolf before him. “In fact, I have one of them patrolling the grounds as we speak.”

“That does make me feel better, my lord. Thank you,” I replied with a small smile. “I believe I am ready to return to my chambers now.” I set the cup and saucer on the table next to me, knowing I would clean it up personally in the morning, and rose from my chair.

“Do you wish me to accompany you?” he asked, suddenly sitting up.

“No, my lord. I believe I’ll be alright.” And for the first time in months, it was true. I grabbed my candlestick from the end table and reignited the flame with his own. But as I turned to leave, Copia called out to me.

“You know, if you ever find yourself unable to sleep, you are always welcome here.” I turned back towards him, our eyes meeting. “I have enjoyed this immensely.”

If my face was an open book, his was a tome. As I returned his gaze, I saw something I did not expect: that secret other that most of us hold deep down inside; our dark passenger. The lines on his face seemed to deepen, and he suddenly seemed much older than he had before. I perceived an immense loneliness obscured by many years of practiced, careful prudence and a mask often worn by those who have suffered great loss—a mask that is only removed in the privacy of solitude. I knew this feeling well.

“I’d like that,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, and I offered a small curtsy before turning to leave.

* * *

I laid in my bed with the taste of camomile still on my tongue and the smell of the hearth clinging to my skin. The thunder and lightning had abated and left nothing but gentle rainfall in their wake, which was lulling me near to slumber.

_ Sniffing_.

My eyes flew open.

_ “You’ve seen how my loyal beasts deal with intruders.” Copia nodded his head towards the slumbering wolf before him. “In fact, I have one of them patrolling the grounds as we speak.” _

“No…” I whispered into the dark, but the image of the masked man and his animalistic behavior was suddenly all I could think about.

Could it be? Was I going mad? There was no reason to believe the ghoul had anything to do with Copia’s wolves. And yet, that sniffing sound that came from him—that same sniffing sound that I heard on the third floor—was so very similar to the sound his wolves made as they inspected the trace scents on the moors just a few nights prior. And then Copia’s words rang in my head: 

_ “Why should ghosts be real and other creatures not?” _


End file.
